of the book.
‘Who did?’
‘Pam.’
‘Pamela Haynes? Your social worker?’
The boy nodded grudgingly.
‘You saw her write the word “schizophrenia”?’
‘She went outside to talk to someone.’
‘And you looked at her notepad while she was gone?’
‘You won’t send me away, will you?’ he pleaded. ‘He’ll kill me if you do!’
‘Who’ll kill you?’
‘The man I told you about! Hazchem.’
‘What did you say?’
But the boy’s moment of desperation had passed, and he would not repeat the word or phrase – was it ‘Ask him’? – which Aileen had failed to catch, merely shaking his head and rocking from side to side, hugging himself tightly.
On the way back to her office, Aileen ran into the consultant psychiatrist’s assistant, a tubby balding man whose attempts to look like a smooth City gent were defeated by a prominent bottom which stuck out like a belly turned the wrong way round. Aileen described the outcome of her interview with Gary Dunn.
‘It’s been the social worker’s fault all along. She got so excited about having made a diagnosis of schizophrenia all by her big self that she left her notes lying around where the boy could see them.’
‘Very unprofessional,’ the assistant agreed. ‘Still, you’ve got to hand it to the little bugger, haven’t you? Top marks for initiative and all that. But what’s his game? Why he’s so keen to be admitted to the Unit that he spends his spare time swotting up symptoms with a copy of Teach Yourself Schizophrenia ?’
‘I don’t know. He claims someone’s trying to kill him. For some reason he seems to think he’s safe here.’
The assistant fingered his pudgy jowls.
‘As long as he doesn’t eat the food. Still, we can’t keep a bed tied up just to keep him happy. Out-patient care, of course, all he wants. But beds are just too precious.’
He was right, of course, and Aileen knew it. Even with its various annexes and extensions, the Unit was designed to house no more than eighty resident patients. By dint of placing beds in corridors and service areas this number had been increased to ninety-five. Over two hundred other patients on a waiting list were currently being housed in regional general hospitals, where they received little or no psychiatric care, with the result that their condition progressively deteriorated.
‘It’s only until Friday,’ Aileen stressed. ‘There’s a bed that’s free anyway.’
‘That’s the day after tomorrow!’ the assistant reminded her. ‘What do you expect to achieve in that space of time?’
‘Nothing, probably. But at least it’ll stop the local authority turning him over to the police for the arson attempt.’
‘And afterwards where will he go?’
‘I don’t know!’ she retorted crossly, feeling browbeaten. ‘I don’t know anything.’
But when she got home that evening, Aileen knew one more thing at least. She had stopped at the public library on the way and returned the book on schizophrenia, paying the fine herself. The librarian proceeded to give her a brisk lecture about withholding books needed by other readers, and to justify herself Aileen started to explain about Gary Dunn.
‘What has this Gary Dunn got to do with it?’ the librarian interrupted peevishly.
‘He’s the boy who borrowed the book.’
‘Not according to my records.’
The librarian’s tone suggested that if there was a discrepancy between reality and his records, then reality was most probably at fault. To clinch the matter, he showed Aileen the computer entry. Schizophrenia: What It Is And What It Isn’t had been borrowed on 6 July by Steven Bradley, of 2 Grafton Avenue. His ticket had been issued in February of the same year, the application being endorsed by Ernest Matthews Esq., a ratepayer at the same address.
6
‘It all happened very long ago and very far away. Whenever I think of that time I remember a trip we took once, to the seaside. It was the only time I was ever
‘Who did?’
‘Pam.’
‘Pamela Haynes? Your social worker?’
The boy nodded grudgingly.
‘You saw her write the word “schizophrenia”?’
‘She went outside to talk to someone.’
‘And you looked at her notepad while she was gone?’
‘You won’t send me away, will you?’ he pleaded. ‘He’ll kill me if you do!’
‘Who’ll kill you?’
‘The man I told you about! Hazchem.’
‘What did you say?’
But the boy’s moment of desperation had passed, and he would not repeat the word or phrase – was it ‘Ask him’? – which Aileen had failed to catch, merely shaking his head and rocking from side to side, hugging himself tightly.
On the way back to her office, Aileen ran into the consultant psychiatrist’s assistant, a tubby balding man whose attempts to look like a smooth City gent were defeated by a prominent bottom which stuck out like a belly turned the wrong way round. Aileen described the outcome of her interview with Gary Dunn.
‘It’s been the social worker’s fault all along. She got so excited about having made a diagnosis of schizophrenia all by her big self that she left her notes lying around where the boy could see them.’
‘Very unprofessional,’ the assistant agreed. ‘Still, you’ve got to hand it to the little bugger, haven’t you? Top marks for initiative and all that. But what’s his game? Why he’s so keen to be admitted to the Unit that he spends his spare time swotting up symptoms with a copy of Teach Yourself Schizophrenia ?’
‘I don’t know. He claims someone’s trying to kill him. For some reason he seems to think he’s safe here.’
The assistant fingered his pudgy jowls.
‘As long as he doesn’t eat the food. Still, we can’t keep a bed tied up just to keep him happy. Out-patient care, of course, all he wants. But beds are just too precious.’
He was right, of course, and Aileen knew it. Even with its various annexes and extensions, the Unit was designed to house no more than eighty resident patients. By dint of placing beds in corridors and service areas this number had been increased to ninety-five. Over two hundred other patients on a waiting list were currently being housed in regional general hospitals, where they received little or no psychiatric care, with the result that their condition progressively deteriorated.
‘It’s only until Friday,’ Aileen stressed. ‘There’s a bed that’s free anyway.’
‘That’s the day after tomorrow!’ the assistant reminded her. ‘What do you expect to achieve in that space of time?’
‘Nothing, probably. But at least it’ll stop the local authority turning him over to the police for the arson attempt.’
‘And afterwards where will he go?’
‘I don’t know!’ she retorted crossly, feeling browbeaten. ‘I don’t know anything.’
But when she got home that evening, Aileen knew one more thing at least. She had stopped at the public library on the way and returned the book on schizophrenia, paying the fine herself. The librarian proceeded to give her a brisk lecture about withholding books needed by other readers, and to justify herself Aileen started to explain about Gary Dunn.
‘What has this Gary Dunn got to do with it?’ the librarian interrupted peevishly.
‘He’s the boy who borrowed the book.’
‘Not according to my records.’
The librarian’s tone suggested that if there was a discrepancy between reality and his records, then reality was most probably at fault. To clinch the matter, he showed Aileen the computer entry. Schizophrenia: What It Is And What It Isn’t had been borrowed on 6 July by Steven Bradley, of 2 Grafton Avenue. His ticket had been issued in February of the same year, the application being endorsed by Ernest Matthews Esq., a ratepayer at the same address.
6
‘It all happened very long ago and very far away. Whenever I think of that time I remember a trip we took once, to the seaside. It was the only time I was ever
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